


Five For Silver

by Ravenstone



Series: A Murder of Magpies [5]
Category: The Professionals
Genre: F/M, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenstone/pseuds/Ravenstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Graphic Het Sex. Something from Macklin's past returns to threaten him, and Magpie will stop at nothing to protect him. Macklin is behaving strangely, and Magpie doesn't know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five For Silver

Macklin listened to Towser's conversation with less than half his attention. It didn't matter; half of Macklin's attention was more than most people's full, so he was more than capable of keeping track. But his real attention was focused behind Towser, to where Maggie stretched carefully, easing out muscles and tension. She bent over the barre in the corner of the room, idly checking her posture in the full length mirror to ensure she received maximum benefit from the stretch. One ankle rested on the barre as she bent down low over the outstretched leg before taking hold of her leg and standing straight, bringing the leg straight up over her head, using the barre to steady herself. She repeated the process with the other side, stretching each muscle slowly and carefully, seemingly oblivious to the heated gaze of Macklin.

She had put him on the mat twice today. He'd managed to pin her once. The professional façade had cracked slightly as she squirmed beneath him, and he'd cursed the watching agents, wanting nothing more than to be alone with her and to let instincts take over. Of course, she had seen the lust darkening his gaze, and he felt as though every move she'd made since had been designed specifically to drive him mad.

Towser left, and Macklin followed him to the door. With a final farewell, Macklin closed the door on the outside world and turned the key silently.

Maggie faced the barre, legs apart, doubled over at the waist, her pony tail curled around her as the tip of her nose touched the floor. She started slightly at the feel of strong hands sliding up her calves, gliding over her taut thigh muscles, before settling on her hips, the grip firm and sure. She smiled to herself, her fingers curling around the barre above her head. She started to straighten, but a subtle tightening of the hold on her made her stop half way. She felt his warm body against her, his legs pressed against hers as he leaned over her. Her breathing hitched in her throat and she gave an involuntary gasp as his hands slid over her hips, firm over her waist and ribs, sliding down her outstretched arms to mirror her position. His chest lay against her back and she instinctively arched closer to him, her hips thrusting back to meet him. Her eyes remained closed, concentrating on the feel of him surrounding her, the latent power and strength hovering over her. The tang of his sweat mingled with the smell of gun powder. She breathed the scent of him in deep.

She heard the metallic click of the handcuffs at the same instant she felt the cold metal against her wrists. She gasped in shock, her eyes opening wide. His hands lay reassuringly over hers, long strong fingers cradling hers. The handcuffs wrapped around the barre and locked loosely against her wrists, tethering her to the pole. She should have felt panic, but with the feel of him around her, his scent comforting her, she only felt a sharp pull of erotic excitement in the pit of her stomach.

She met his gaze in the mirror, his eyes dark with lust, but still with a hint of question in them. Even now, if she showed the slightest discomfort, he would stop.

He watched her carefully, aware of every thought flashing through her mind. She met his gaze steadily, not a flicker of distress in her dark blue eyes. He pulled back from her, his hands trailing over her back, watching each flex and pull of muscles under his hands. He marvelled at the trust in her, his gaze hungrily devouring the arch of her spine and flare of her hips. She arched sinuously under his hands, her eyes half closing as a soft moan escaped her lips. He hissed as her hips thrust back against him again, feeling her grind against his erection straining at his jeans. His hands followed the curves of her waist, sliding underneath her ribs to cup her breasts, feeling her nipples hard and erect through the thin material.

She threw her head back as he fondled her breasts. The wanton look he saw on her face in the mirror pushed him over the edge. He growled, lowering his head to her neck, tasting her sweat as he licked and nipped at the back of her neck. She moaned, pushing back against him. Desperate with need, he pulled roughly at her tight fitting top, feeling the slick dampness of her sweat as he bared her skin. His hands sought her breasts again, eager to feel the warm, heavy skin in his hands. He groaned again as her nipples thrust, hard and firm, into his palms. He kneaded the firm flesh desperately.

Maggie gripped the barre, her knuckles white in frustration. She threw her head back again, her eyes closed so she did not see the almost feral expression on her face. Looking up over her shoulder to see the reflection, Macklin saw it; saw her teeth bared in a wild snarl as she arched and pushed desperately against him. He grabbed the back of her top, ripping it with a savage tug, baring her back to his hungry gaze. The tattered top hung from her wrists. He saw the swell of her breasts reflected in the mirror, and dropped his head to lay demanding kisses and bites along her back. She flinched and gasped as his sharp teeth left marks, the gasps turning to soft groans as he soothed them with his lips and tongue. His hands slid down her body, fingers dipping into the waist band of her leggings. Smoothly, he slid the legging down, using his legs to drag them further down her body to shackle her ankles. The cool air caressed her heated skin and she shivered, but not from the cold.

His lips trailed down her spine, his hands busy beneath her, stroking and gripping her warm skin. She groaned as his gun callused hands dragged down her thighs before sliding in between them and gliding back up the sensitive skin.

“God! Fuck,” she breathed, convulsing uncontrollably as his long fingers delved between her thighs, finding her slick and hot in anticipation. He left one hand teasing her deftly as he reached between them to loosen his jeans. He guided his long, curved shaft unerringly into her grasping heat. She gasped, arching up against him, thrusting back automatically to impale herself on his length. Her eyes were wide in the reflection as he entered her in one long smooth stroke. She pulled against the handcuffs, rattling the barre as she reared against him, desperate for him. He paused, feeling her heat around him, waiting for his heart beat to slow down to give him enough control to carry on. The feeling of her around him almost broke him, made him want to thrust just once more and let go.

His heat burned inside her, hot and thick, so deep she thought she would choke. She relinquished all control to him willingly, trusting him implicitly, as she never trusted anyone else. There was something strangely reassuring about her position, her total surrender to him. She didn't have to think, didn't have to move more than instinct dictated. He surrounded her completely, filled her.

He bent low over her, his lips against her neck again. Slowly he thrust in and out of her, feeling the tightening ring of muscle hold him, try to pull him back in as he withdrew. Her scent surrounded him, sweat and musk. Hardly believing this to be real, he reached down between her legs again, needing to feel for himself where their two bodies met and joined. He groaned at the reassurance, his eyes closing as he lost himself in the willing body beneath him.

He opened his eyes again to look at her, seeing the sweat sheen her skin, her hair clinging to her face. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against him.

“You've been driving me insane all day,” he growled into her ear. She opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror. She gave a sultry smile.

“Have I? Did it take much?” she asked, her voice husky and breathless. Her eyes closed again, her mouth opening and closing in silent need as he thrust deep inside her.

He bit down on the juncture of neck and shoulder, his teeth sharp, and she arched against him in pleasure and pain. He filled one hand with her hair, pulling her head back gently but firmly to expose more of her neck to his mouth, the other hand reaching beneath her to clench against one pert breast. Her grip tightened on the barre, her breathing harsh and ragged. She pushed back against him blindly, desperately. He felt her heart hammering underneath his hand, felt her shuddering grip against his shaft. Her muscles clenched and he could barely move as she writhed back against him, holding him firm inside her. He saw her face contort in ecstasy, reflected in the mirror. Wave after wave of throbbing heat wrapped around him, and suddenly he lost any semblance of control, burying himself deep inside her, his release pulsing deep inside her, matching her own grasping orgasm.

His heart hammered against her back. He could feel her own heartbeat galloping wildly beneath him. Their sweat mingled, joining their skin as one. He held onto the barre, his hands next to hers, using it to keep his weight off her. She pressed up against him, still wanting to feel his heat against her bare skin.

“Keys?” she asked gently, when their breathing had slowed enough to allow them to speak.

He paused, holding his breath, as he met her gaze in the reflection. She was flushed, face glowing with satisfaction. He gave a wry smile.

“Ah,” he said slowly. “Now there may be a problem there....”

 

# # # # # # #

 

Domesticity, Macklin thought as he lay back on the sofa with his head in Maggie's lap, was more a state of mind than anything. They spent all day, every day, training with recruits, assessing individuals, testing equipment. Everything was fast, violent, explosive. But through it all was a calm thread of peace, necessary for them to function efficiently. Then there were times like this, where the fast pace and quick thinking seemed so far away. A quiet centre in their world of extremes.

Maggie sat curled up in the corner of the sofa. Sunlight streamed through the open patio doors, the long white gauze curtains stirring in the breeze. She was engrossed in her book. A glance up at the spine told him it was another James Bond story – to his knowledge, she had read them all several times. She held the book in one hand, her other hand idly lying across him as he lay in her lap, reading his own book.

He looked down at the pages again; Milton's _Paradise Lost_. Another book he read for the simple pleasure the words gave. She lifted her hand from his chest to turn a page, but the weight returned once the job was done. Her fingers idly petted and stroked, sliding in between the buttons on his half-open shirt. He closed the book, giving up the pretence, and sighed as he relaxed into her caress. Her hand stopped its motion and he opened one eye to complain, finding her looking down at him over her book.

“Am I boring you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Not especially.” He closed his eyes again.

“What about the old 'better to serve in hell' stuff?”

“Reign,” he corrected automatically.

“ 'Serve in rain' doesn't make sense,” she teased.

He opened his eyes again, turning his head slightly to fix her with an exasperated but amused look. “Now, I know you know better than that,” he admonished with mock severity.

She smiled and put her book to one side, carefully marking her place with a book-marker. “Where would be the fun in that?”

“There's no fun in the Expulsion from the Garden of Eden,” he said firmly, closing his eyes again. The effect was spoiled somewhat by the contented smile that curled his lips as she stroked her fingers through his hair. Her other hand slid further inside his shirt with a more determined aim.

“Not even with forbidden fruit?” she asked. He opened his eyes to find her watching him with a look of contrived innocence. “They do say that the whole forbidden fruit thing is just a euphemism.”

“Metaphor,” he corrected.

Her hands stilled. “You're just being deliberately pedantic now, Brian Macklin,” she said frostily. She removed her hand from his chest, but he caught it firmly, bringing her palm to his lips for a contrite kiss.

“Well, if you'd like me to demonstrate what it's a metaphor for, you only have to ask,” he said, his eyes dancing with mischief.

She pouted to stop the smile from spreading across her face. “You mean, if I'd like you to pluck my fruit?” she asked innocently.

Macklin raised himself up to bring his face level with hers. “Then I'll pluck you,” he said with a grin. “Or something that sounds very similar at least.”

He leaned forward to kiss her, his lips demanding a response. She responded willingly, wrapping one arm around his waist while her other hand ran through his hair to the back of his head, pressing him closer into the kiss. He caught her legs in one arm, sliding her around to lie on the sofa beneath him. They kissed lazily, allowing the passion to build slowly as fingers explored curves and skin with a knowing touch.

The doorbell rang, startling in the silence. He raised his head from hers to give her a questioning look.

“It's Sunday,” she said. “It'll be Jehovah's Witnesses.”

“Not after what you said to the last lot.”

She reached up to cup his face in her hands, gently pulling him back down to her. “Please?” she breathed.

He could barely resist the violet eyes, almost black with desire, but the soft request broke him completely. He lowered his head to hers and took her mouth again, ignoring the bell.

“Ahem.”

The loud cough from the patio doors startled them both. Bodie stood, arms folded in front of him, with an impossibly cheeky grin spread across his face.

“If we were armed, you'd be dead,” Maggie snapped.

“Oh you've got your hands full, we can see that,” Doyle said with a grin from where he lounged against the door frame.

“Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?” She directed the comment to Macklin, who lay trembling with tension above her. He looked down at her, sensing her need for him to relax.

“Carry on regardless, you mean?” he asked, his voice carefully pitched to nonchalance.

She knew the effort it cost him. He was not comfortable with public displays of affection, and not happy with anyone knowing the nature of their relationship. It wasn't embarrassment. She was confident enough of his affections and sure enough of him to know that it wouldn't be anything so base. If anything, it was another sign of his insecurity. And having Doyle standing there as witness would be doubly aggravating to him.

She saw the hint of aggression hiding in his steel-blue eyes as he glared at Doyle, even now jealous in some way she had never been able to understand.

“No,” she replied with a sigh, calling his attention back to her. The anger died in his eyes. “You wouldn't want to make them feel even more inadequate, would you?”

“Inadequate?” Bodie squawked in mock annoyance. His features slid into calm impassivity as Macklin uncoiled his long length off the settee and stood to his full height. Macklin exuded danger like a wild animal. He reached down to pull Maggie up before running his fingers through his hair to calm the ruffled sandy locks.

“Why are you here?” he asked, fastening the shirt buttons she had undone.

Maggie fixed the two of them with a baleful glare, daring them to comment as she straightened her mussed hair. “Just naturally annoying,” she growled.

Macklin gave her a sidelong look, amusement in his gaze. She was being deliberately belligerent, he knew. Taking the attention away from him to let him regain his equanimity. It was a double act they played to perfection, whether sparring on the mats or playing agents off against each other.

“Message for you. From Cowley.” Doyle straightened, both hands pushed into the back pockets of his jeans.

“That's 'Mr.' Cowley,” Maggie snapped in a fair approximation of a Scottish accent. She looked from one man to the other. “I'll just go and put the kettle on then, shall I?” she said archly.

Macklin watched her leave, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your timing stinks,” he said as the door closed behind her.

“Yeah.” Bodie had the grace to look genuinely apologetic as he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a cream coloured envelope. “Sorry about that.”

Macklin turned to them with a smile, mischief dancing in his eyes, and reached to pluck the envelope from Bodie's outstretched hand. “I expect we'll get our own back. At some point.”

Bodie and Doyle shared a rueful grin – they knew how proficient Macklin and Maggie were at exacting revenge.

Macklin opened the envelope, pulling out a thick, creamy coloured piece of paper with Cowley's precise, angular script on one side. He scanned the contents, his look of amusement fading rapidly into a frown. Bodie and Doyle tensed at the change in his manner.

He looked back at them. “Either of you know about this?” he asked quickly.

Bodie shook his head. Doyle gave a wide-eyed look. “No,” he replied.

“Give me your lighter.” Macklin held on hand out to Doyle, who didn't ask how he knew about the Zippo in his pocket. He handed it over without hesitation and watched in bemusement as Macklin lit the paper, waiting for the flame to catch. When he couldn't hold it any longer, he placed the remains in the cleaned out open fire, watching carefully until the whole letter had burned to cinders. Macklin stared down into the ashes.

“Tell Cowley I understand,” he said, his voice clipped and curt. He turned back to them, his features grim. “And tell him not to tell Maggie,” he added softly.

Doyle nodded, as Bodie gave Macklin a calculating look. “I'm not used to being a telegram service,” Bodie growled.

Macklin shot him a hard look. “It's more than just a simple telegram, Bodie, and you damn well know it,” he snarled. He started as Maggie appeared in the doorway, a cautious look on his face.

“Tea or coffee?” she asked. The role of hostess did not sit easily on her, and it showed.

Bodie rolled his shoulders. “To tell the truth, we've got to be off. “

Doyle picked up his cue, resting his hands on his hips. “Yeah. We're just a pair of glorified errand boys today. Still got other calls to make.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “You been pissing Cowley off again?”

Bodie grinned. “That's 'Mr.' Cowley,” he said as he stepped back through the doors.

Doyle smiled and waved a finger in the air. “We'll just – leave you to enjoy your Sunday afternoon,” he said with a grin.

Maggie crossed her arms in front of her and gave them a look. “Piss off, Doyle. And you, Bodie,” she snapped without any heat. They grinned and left, giving Macklin one last curious look before disappearing back where they came.

She walked to the patio door to make sure they had gone, unaware of the change in Macklin's mood.

“What brought them here, then?” she asked. She turned to find him standing over the fireplace staring into the hearth. She frowned as she took in the slump in the broad shoulders.

“Mack?” Her worry leaked into her voice. He looked up at the sound. The emptiness in his blue eyes chilled her.

“I'm just going out,” he announced, stepping away from the fireplace and heading for the door. She stepped forward quickly.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

He turned back at the door, a frown creasing his forehead. “I just want to go for a walk,” he said, an edge in his voice. She backed away at the sound, unused to hearing that tone from him. The look he gave her was strange; she couldn't place it. He looked at her as though he didn't recognise her.

“When will you be back?” she asked, unwilling to let him go without some attempt to draw him back to her.

He shrugged. “I don't know.” He turned and left without another word.

“Mack?” she called after him, but her only reply was the sound of the front door closing behind him.

 

# # # # # # #

 

The next week was the hardest Maggie could remember. Macklin had withdrawn from her even more when he returned, four hours later, from his walk. He barely acknowledged her, until she retired to bed, leaving him staring at the television screen, apparently absorbed by the old black and white movie. She had lain awake in bed waiting for him, but it had been several hours after the film had finished before his silhouette appeared in the doorway. Even then, he had slid between the sheets without a word, without the slightest touch. When she had reached out to him, he had turned away from her, leaving her cold and alone like she had never been since their relationship had started.

Their work together continued without problems, on the surface at least. But there was a strained quality to their usually seamless rapport, as though Maggie couldn't be certain of Macklin's next move. She couldn't read him any more, as though he had become a total stranger over night. When she expected him to turn one way, he would catch her out, reacting completely differently to what she anticipated. It kept her in a permanent state of uncertainty, unable to catch her breath long enough to work out what was going wrong. No sooner had he given her one surprise, he would follow it with another, keeping her forever playing catch-up.

They sparred, and he caught her out once or twice, bouncing her off the mat unexpectedly, crushing the wind from her and leaving her gasping. After the second time it happened, she stopped trying to simply defend or attack and went straight for the kill, her anger breaking through her control. Macklin found himself genuinely fighting for his life, blocking blows that could debilitate or kill him if they connected. She may be small, but she knew where to inflict the greatest damage. He had taught her well. In pure self-protection, he blocked a flurry of blows before finally breaking through her attack to strike her. The force of the blow threw her off her feet, leaving her sprawled on the floor, the shock bringing her back to her senses.

She reached up with a shaking hand to wipe her mouth, staring at the blood streaking her palm with shock. He had forced her into a completely instinctive reaction. No longer able to read him or anticipate his moves, she had lashed out murderously. She knew she wouldn't have hurt him; she would have pulled back in the last second. But he hadn't known that, he hadn't trusted that. That their relationship should deteriorate so quickly to the point where he didn't know her next move and she couldn't protect herself from him chilled her, made her feel sick.

Macklin glared down at her, breathing heavily, a frown creasing his features. He hadn't intended to strike her. He had expected her to see the blow coming and block it, only wanting to halt her murderous flurry of blows long enough for her to remember herself. Instead, she lay bleeding on the floor, and he was responsible. He stepped towards her instinctively, wanting to be certain she was unhurt, but he stopped himself after half a step.

He wiped a hand over his face in frustration and turned away from her, looking around the empty gym. Towser and the other agents had left and he hadn't even noticed, too intent on fighting Maggie. “You let your guard down,” he snarled, angry with her and furious with himself. “You trusted me not to hurt you.”

“You think I'd make an elementary error like that?” she snapped. “I don't expect you to pull your punches, Mack. Not at work.”

“I don't expect you to try to kill me either.” His anger was barely in check, his voice hard and brutal.

“I am what I am.”

He turned back to her viciously, his face contorted with anger. “And what's that exactly? What I made you?”

She sprang to her feet, facing up to him belligerently. “Oh I don't think you can take credit for all of it.”

He looked her up and down. “And what makes you think I want to?” he said with a curl in his lip.

She flinched as though he had struck her, and he braced himself for a blow. But it never came. Instead, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

He watched her leave with an unreadable expression.

 

# # # # # # #

 

He heard the front door slam and sighed. He had hoped she would have taken longer to get home than this. He followed her movements from the sounds that travelled up the stairs of their small house in Kensington. Eventually, she would come upstairs.

He hoisted the bag over his shoulder and went to face the inevitable.

Maggie turned as he appeared in the doorway, her face lighting up at the sight of him, but immediately twisting into confusion. She didn't know what to expect from him any more.

“You're home,” she said, simply to break the silence between them. She couldn't read his expression, and it frightened her. He was a stranger again, his emotions hidden from her.

Her gaze fell to the bag at his feet and she frowned. “Where are you going?” she asked. There was an edge to her voice, a note of fear that she tried to suppress and ignore.

He sighed. “I'm – just going,” he said shortly, his voice quiet and firm.

She stared at him, not believing what she was hearing. She wanted to laugh and tell him to stop teasing her, but it wasn't funny. And he looked too serious. Her face twitched, his shuttered expression telling her more than his words could. Something inside her twisted and broke painfully. “Where?” she asked.

He stepped towards her, bracing himself against the pain in her eyes, huge and dark in her suddenly bloodless face. “It's not working here. With you,” he said gently.

She flinched as though he had punched her in the stomach, her body twitching in on itself. “No,” she whispered.

“Maggie,” he said her name softly. She stared at him, unable to believe that this man could take all the power she'd given him and turn it against her. She could see it was difficult for him. He couldn't meet her eyes, glancing away from her as though trying to find what to say.

“Don't,” she began, her voice breaking. Her vision blurred, tears spilling uncontrollably from her eyes. She felt defenceless, utterly unable to protect herself from the whirlwind of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

He looked at her then, watching as the tears slid down her pale cheeks. “I am sorry,” he said. “But I can't stay. It's not fair on either of us.”

She flinched from his words as though they were weapons he used against her, shaking her head, denying the things she heard.

“I love you,” she said softly.

He looked into her violet eyes, seeing the pain tearing her up inside. He had to fight the urge to reach for her and tell her everything would be fine. Instead, he hardened himself, and said what he had to say, even though it destroyed him inside.

“I don't love you,” he said firmly.

He reached down for his bag, unable to watch the expression on her face any more. He turned away from her without a second glance, and left.

She stood shell-shocked and stunned, the click of the front door closing behind him echoing through her mind like the sound of a bullet. The sheer volume of emotions within her fused and collapsed in on themselves, leaving her cold and barren. Without a sound, the pain too much for even a sigh or scream, she collapsed to her knees on the floor.

 

# # # # # # #

 

“You lost him?” Cowley's incredulous roar had both men flinching.

“This is Macklin we're talking about,” Doyle protested. “He wrote the bloody book on being a sneaky bastard.”

Cowley paced his office before standing beside the window, staring out with a thoughtful expression. “Aye, but I never put him down for a bloody fool,” Cowley murmured, half to himself.

Bodie shifted in his parade ground stance. “It might help if you told us what's going on?” He kept the note of accusation from his voice, but Cowley sensed the underlying meaning.

“You're not privy to personal information about other agents, Bodie,” he snapped sharply, glaring at him.

“It might help us work out where Macklin's gone,” Doyle protested

Cowley pursed his lips, his grey eyes glittering. “It won't help. Won't help at all,” he growled. He turned back to the window, staring out into the past. “Brian Macklin was the best operative I ever saw. He was seconded from the SAS to head a special unit targeting organised crime in Hong Kong.” He turned back to the two men, a sad expression on his face. “He had to deal with corruption inside his own department, and Triad objections to his activities. It ended up with him gut shot and face down in the Bay. We never did find out who betrayed him.”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged uncomfortable looks. Cowley was too sharp to miss them. The harsh voice dropped to a sad murmur. “Aye, it was brutal. God knows how he survived.” He returned to his desk, his craggy features hard with the memories. “That left Meredith, of course. And we know how well that played out.”

“So why's he running now?” Doyle asked, ignoring the flash of anger in Cowley's eyes. “Macklin would face down the Devil himself,” he said firmly. “So why is he running?”

Cowley signed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “The message I sent you to give him – the one you say he destroyed and didn't want Maggie to know about.” Cowley fixed them with a weary look. “For some reason, the Triads have decided that Macklin must be eliminated.”

Doyle's green eyes were wide as his eyebrows raised. “They've put a contract out on him?” he asked incredulously.

“The guy's shacked up with an assassin!” Bodie exclaimed.

“Not that anyone else knows that!” Cowley snapped brusquely.

“So he's done a runner. Drawn them away from Magpie,” Doyle said thoughtfully.

Cowley gave him a perceptive look. “But why do that?” he asked silkily. “Maggie's the perfect way to find out what the Triads want and what they're up to.”

“Use her connections, you mean?” Doyle asked.

Bodie nodded. “Makes perfect sense,” he agreed.

Doyle shook his head, his lips thinning in disagreement. “Not if you're Macklin, it doesn't.”

Cowley sat back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him. He saw the hard look on Doyle's face, curious to know what conclusions Doyle had reached. “How do you mean, Doyle?”

Doyle's slanted green eyes flicked from Cowley to Bodie. “Your girlfriend's a retired assassin, living under various assumed names, and no-one knows exactly who Magpie is,” Doyle began smoothly. “But hang around CI5 for a while and you'll soon find out that Maggie Draven is also known as Magpie, and then the connection is only a matter of time.”

“So he doesn't want to break her cover?” Cowley guessed.

Doyle pursed his lips. “Partly,” he agreed. “But mainly, he's not going to risk the woman he loves getting caught in the crossfire or being hurt by someone just to get to him.”

Bodie's hand slashed through the air to emphasise his point. “But all it would take is a few calls and she could call them off.”

“Use her, you mean? Put her in the firing line and hide behind her?” Doyle's mocking tone silenced his partner. “Can you see Macklin doing that to anyone? To her?” He looked from Bodie to Cowley, reading both men's reactions astutely. “You expected Macklin to act logically. You expected him to use anything at his disposal. Including her.” Cowley looked uncomfortable under Doyle's perceptive stare. “What you forgot to consider is the emotions involved. Macklin's not going to let anyone else take a risk for him, and he's certainly not going bring Maggie to the attention of the Triads. Not even to save his own skin.”

Cowley stood up, walking around the desk to reach for his coat. “So what would he do?”

“He'd leave her. Walk out. Make sure she wouldn't follow him,” Doyle replied.

Cowley's eyes glittered. “Aye. He'd try his damnedest to make her hate him,” he agreed. “And would that work, do you think?”

Bodie and Doyle exchanged looks of bewilderment. “Depends how strongly she feels about it,” Bodie ventured.

Cowley shrugged himself into his coat. “The sun rises and sets on Brian Macklin for Maggie, since she was 14 years old,” he said gruffly. “I hope you two are ready to hold down a hellcat.”

 

# # # # # # #

 

Macklin closed the door of the hotel room behind him and rested his forehead against it with a sigh. He dropped his bag to the ground and raised his hands, placing them palm down against the wood of the door, level with his head. The tendons in his hands stood out as he fought the urge to ball them into fists and pummel the wood beneath his hands.

He functioned well enough to recognise Bodie and Doyle tailing him, despite their best efforts. And they were good, he had to give them that. Desperation gave him an extra spur, however, and he'd shaken them off eventually. He'd used the time to watch for anyone else tailing him, but he hadn't seen anyone obvious. He didn't necessarily find that reassuring.

He'd turn paranoid, he knew. Watching every shadow, not trusting anyone, unable to switch off. It would only be a matter of time before the constant surveillance wore him down. If they didn't find him before then. If they didn't.....

 _Oh God..... Maggie...._

The pain in his chest threatened to overwhelm him. He whispered her name like a prayer, the thought of her drowning out all other considerations. The breath caught in his throat, leaving him capable of only short, gasping breaths as he tried to contain everything. The guilt, the all-consuming pain. For days now he had been pushing her away, deliberately keeping her in a constant state of confusion so she wouldn't see what he was planning or start to question why. He had never lied to her, never deceived her. She would never consider him capable of it.

She would never forgive him for it.

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and pushed himself away from the door. It was only a matter of time, he knew. He was a dead man walking. Eventually, the Triads would find him and kill him. If not this team, then another. They wouldn't stop. Eventually, he would have nowhere left to hide, and nowhere to run.

He wondered if she would ever know, how she would find out. He knew she'd be furious. He hoped she would understand. He prayed she would get over it.

He hoped the Triads wouldn't take too long to find him. Without Maggie, there didn't seem any point in delaying the inevitable.

He couldn't bring himself to think that she loved him, to remember how much. To hope that she still would. He locked the memory away deep inside. If he recalled it now, he knew it would destroy him completely.

 

# # # # # # #

 

Maggie felt certain she was dying. It was the only explanation for the stabbing pain in her chest. Breathing seemed to require too much effort, and she wasn't sure it was worth it. Her worst nightmare had come true, the one fear she had never even had the courage to imagine. There was no way she could have dreamed of the sudden aching darkness that threatened to consume her. And yet there was a familiarity to it, something she recognised and recoiled from in equal measure.

It meant going back; returning to the person she'd once been, when she'd run from Hong Kong and started killing for a living. She couldn't do that again, couldn't face that soul destroying darkness, but it was there, welcoming her, drawing her in. And she no longer had Macklin to keep her in the light.

She had never doubted his love. Macklin was always so certain of himself, sure of the world and his place within it, that she couldn't believe him capable of making that kind of mistake. He knew himself completely, knew her totally. He knew the darkness within her, the horrors she had seen and done, and he never flinched from them. He accepted her wholly, demons and all. With him, she felt complete, safe – whole. All her life had been spent searching for an identity, a way of living that wasn't a lie, and she had found it with him.

And now he was gone.

She stood up slowly, not knowing where the strength or will came from, and wandered the house without purpose. She found herself upstairs in the bedroom. A navy blue jumper lay at the foot of the bed. She reached for it with no conscious thought but that he had worn it. She sat on the bed, stroking the wool gently, imaging the feel of it on him, his warmth permeating the material. When she raised it to her face, his scent surrounded her, but where there had once been reassurance, there was only emptiness. She buried her face in the wool, inhaling deeply, desperate to will all this pain and horror away.

For over a week, she had felt like he was a stranger, had not recognised the man she thought she knew better than anyone. She had been confused, thrown completely into disarray, without time to think about any possible reasons. No sooner had he thrown her one way, than he changed direction again, leaving her constantly behind him, unable to process one baffling reaction before being presented with another. It was as though he were deliberately throwing her off the scent, not allowing her a moment to gather her wits about her and pin him down to answer for his strange behaviour.

What had happened to the peace they had once had?

An image returned to her – sunlight on sandy blond hair, his head in her lap as he teased her.... teased her.... about what? She couldn't remember. Her thoughts were muddled, thrown by the storm of emotions flooding her.

She lay back on the bed, clutching his jumper tight to her. Knowing the gesture was futile, unwilling to recognise it as desperation, she arranged the arms of the jumper around her and buried her face in the chest of it, imagining his reassuring warmth inside it, in the arms that encircled her. It was pathetic, she knew, but she would take her comfort wherever she could. The jumper was soaked with her tears, but she wasn't even aware she was crying.

Slowly, her raw senses attempted to form a thought, recall a memory dulled by pain. _Reign in hell......_

 _Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven......_

Bodie and Doyle on a Sunday afternoon. That was the last time Macklin had been _her_ Macklin. And what had changed, what had they done? They had barely stayed five minutes, claiming they had other errands to run and messages to deliver....

Messages. They had delivered Macklin a message from Cowley.

She sat up abruptly, the unnoticed tears stopping immediately. What had the message been? What could Cowley have told him that would have caused this complete shut down in him? What was there that he couldn't tell her?

She racked her brains, her senses firing rapidly now she had found a purpose to aim for. The jumper stayed in her grasp close to her face, the scent an anchor to the barrage of thoughts now flying through her mind. What could Cowley have told him? Was it something about her past? She had never given Macklin a detailed breakdown of the years she had spent away from him, but if he had asked her, she would tell him whatever he wanted to know. Much of what she had done wasn't withheld deliberately, but rather it did not occur to her to say, but even so, she couldn't think of anything worse than anything else he knew about her.

Something from his past perhaps? The shadowy figure of his ex-wife, Eloise, loomed in her memory, and jealousy stabbed deep inside her. But he had told her he hadn't seen her for four years, since after his shooting. And she believed him, because he didn't lie.

At least, she never believed he lied.

One thing was certain. If she wanted to know what had driven him away, all she had to do was find Bodie and Doyle, or Cowley, and demand the information. And she wouldn't stop until she had her answer.

Filled with sudden purpose, she slid off the bed, straightening her clothes. She made for the wardrobe, reaching for a dagger that she strapped to the inside of her leg, and her Beretta which she double checked before pushing into the waist band of her jeans. His jumper stayed firmly in her hands.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror on top of the dressing table, noticing for the first time the tears staining her cheeks. Her eyes were dark, red rimmed and looking bruised in her pale face. She stared as though unable to recognise the strange creature in the mirror as herself. She brushed at the tears absently, almost mystified as to where they had come from.

A sound came from downstairs. Movement. A sudden surge filled her at the hope that he had returned, but then a voice echoed through the house, and the face in the mirror froze and hardened.

“Maggie?”

Doyle.

She turned and sprinted to the stairs, not bothering with the steps and sliding expertly down the rail. Before she hit the bottom, she caught the side of the rail, swinging herself down to the floor. Doyle stood framed in the doorway to the lounge. He had heard the noise and moved towards it instinctively. What he didn't expect was Maggie lunging for his throat, a bright blade in one hand and cold death in her eyes.

He threw himself backwards out of her grasp, tripping over a side table on his way. He twisted, desperate to keep on his feet and away from her, at least until she had returned to her senses.

“Bodie!” he yelled, even as his partner came behind her, catching the hand with the blade first and twisting to force her to release it. It was a move she was all-too familiar with, and she countered it, transferring her attention from Doyle to deal with Bodie. For once, her fury worked against her, Bodie's calm control anticipating her moves and countering them. He twisted her against him, pressing into her legs to force her to the ground, where his greater strength and weight worked for him, neutralising her speed and agility.

Finally, she lay face down on the floor, both arms twisted behind her painfully, and Bodie's weight resting in the middle of her back, pinning her to the floor. Bodie struggled to hold her, nervous of inflicting any damage, but Maggie seemed oblivious, fighting against him despite the risk to herself. Doyle caught her legs before they could cause any damage.

“Maggie.” Cowley's voice from the doorway froze her immediately. Bodie did not trust the suddenly still body beneath him, feeling the tension strumming through her. Her expression was still wild, almost feral, as though there were nothing human left within her.

“Maggie!” Cowley called again, more authority in his voice. No-one could resist that tone.

“Watch it, sir,” Doyle warned as he approached.

Cowley gave him a prim, close-lipped look. “I think I'm aware of how dangerous the situation is, thank you, Doyle.” He looked down at her, wondering what Macklin had done to bring her to this.

“You've finally made a connection,” Cowley said ruefully. “God knows what merry dance he's been leading you for it to take you this long.” He sat down on the edge of a chair, his coat carefully folded over his arm.

“Oh, let her up, laddie,” he ordered brusquely. Bodie and Doyle hesitated. “She won't hurt anyone. Not til she's got her answers at least,” Cowley assured them confidently.

Bodie released his hold on her as Doyle let go of her legs. She threw them off angrily, turning on them with teeth bared.

“Maggie,” Cowley snapped. She turned sharply at the sound, glaring at him angrily before sitting up and curling her legs in front of her, hugging her knees. The muscles in her arms twitched with the effort of containing her temper. She watched him with an unblinking, baleful gaze. The jumper she still clutched in one hand lay on her lap, hugged against her chest. She seemed oblivious to the incongruity of it.

“Where's Brian?” Cowley asked, satisfied he had her attention at last.

She blinked once, and frowned. “You don't know?” she asked. Her voice was cracked and broken, as though hoarse from screaming.

Cowley's face tightened. He glanced at Bodie and Doyle. “You two wait in the car,” he ordered brusquely. They hesitated as he turned to throw his coat across the nearby sofa. When he turned back, he stared at them in surprise, as though expecting them gone already.

“Well?” he demanded.

Bodie turned to Doyle, who shrugged, both arms outstretched. With a heavy sigh, Bodie backed away, waiting for Doyle to lead the way out. He gave Cowley one last exasperated look before following his partner.

Cowley watched her, waiting until he heard the front door close. Maggie stared into space, unfocussed, unseeing. She looked a thousand miles away.

“Do you know where he's gone, lassie?” he asked gently.

She shook her head, her blue eyes brimming with tears that slowly trickled down her pale cheeks. He leaned towards her, resting his elbows on his knees.

“What did he tell you?” he asked in the same gentle voice. He had to break through this unnatural withdrawal without causing her pain to erupt into fury.

She wetted her lips with difficulty. “Nothing,” she said at last. “Just – he was going. Doesn't trust me enough.” The empty stare suddenly fixed on him. “What did you tell him?” she demanded.

“Oh, he trusts you, Maggie,” Cowley said softly. “It's himself he doesn't.” He stood slowly, moving around the room before standing by the patio doors, looking through the windows into the small garden beyond.

“I was best man at his wedding, you know,” he said quietly.

“And my father's,” she said. “You're bad luck at weddings, George.” Her humour was unconvincing.

“The only time I've seen him falling down drunk,” Cowley continued as though she hadn't spoken. “Also the only time I've seen him cry.”

“You'd better have a point to all this,” she said, her voice sharp with rising anger.

He ignored her. “All the pain he went through after his shooting, I never saw him cry. But he cried then.”

“Why?”

He turned back to look at her, noticing the attention behind the façade of boredom. “Oh, I thought it was the usual things. Pre-wedding nerves. He was rambling on about how much he loved her, how he hadn't wanted to lose her.” He caught the freezing of her face, but continued. “I assumed he meant Eloise,” he said gently. “But then it became clear. He was talking about you.”

Tears streaked her cheeks, unnoticed. Cowley watched her, his grey eyes sad. “Brian Macklin loves you, girl. Don't you doubt that.”

“Then why has he gone?” she cried, her control breaking. Sobs broke from her as she pulled her knees closer to her chest, instinctively bending her head to the comfort the jumper gave her.

“To protect you,” he explained calmly. He waited for his words to register, for the dark head to rise, fixing him with confused violet eyes. “The Triads have put a contract on him,” he finished.

He watched her, fascinated by the subtle changes his news brought about in her. Within seconds, the empty pain filled eyes had turned sharp with purpose. Her tears stopped immediately, and the tight, coiled tension that held her muscles taut relaxed, leaving her lithe and supple. And deadly. Her grasp around her knees loosened.

“Triads,” she repeated. He nodded. “Which ones?”

He blinked in astonishment at her question. “We don't know,” he admitted.

“Which Mountain Master?” Her voice was stronger, sharper.

He shook his head. “We don't know anything else.”

“You don't know much, do you?” she snapped. She unravelled from her tightly coiled ball and stood smoothly. All trace of the ragged, burned out virago who had attacked Doyle with death in her eyes was gone. Magpie was the smooth professional again, and if she still retained a tight grip on the jumper in her hand, Cowley wasn't going to mention it.

“I expected Macklin to ask you,” he admitted.

Her head jerked around to fix him with a piercing look. “You seriously expect Brian Macklin to ask me to contact Triads?” she asked. “Triads?” she repeated.

“He's not a fool. He's going to know you've had dealings with them,” Cowley snapped.

“He's not a fool, because he wasn't stupid enough to ever ask me,” she snarled. She ran a hand through her hair in exasperation. She came to stand next to him, looking out over the garden. She gave a heavy sigh.

“You don't know who, and you don't know why?” she asked, her voice clipped.

He pursed his lips, embarrassed by his lack of knowledge. “We just know they've sent a four man team in three weeks ago. I sent the message as soon as I heard.”

She turned her head to look at him, a hard, almost pitying look in her red-rimmed eyes. “Tell me one thing, and it had better be the bloody truth.”

“What's that?”

“Is my 'phone tapped?”

He met her gaze easily. “Not to my knowledge.”

She gave him a sidelong look, warning him. “You'd better be very sure. Because if he gets a whiff of a tap, he'll never trust me again.”

“Who?”

She looked out over the garden again, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Georgiou.”

“Your handler?” he asked. She nodded briefly. He glanced at his watch. “What time will in be in Greece?”

She turned to him, her mouth twisted in wry amusement. “Georgiou isn't in Greece. He's not even Greek.” Cowley's expression remained neutral. “Stop fishing, Uncle George. If Georgiou finds out I've got a tap, he won't tell me anything.”

He regarded her carefully, before nodding acceptance. “There's no tap I'm aware of,” he repeated. “But I'll check.”

“Good.”

She remained at the window, oblivious to the sounds of Cowley moving around the room, using her telephone to call his office and arrange checks on the line. He didn't disturb her as he poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter, waiting for the confirmation call to come back.

The coldness inside her remained, the icy hollow where her soul - where Macklin - had been. He hadn't trusted her enough to deal with this. Whatever Cowley said, that was what she felt inside. When Macklin needed help, he hadn't turned to her. He had run off to deal with the problem alone, with no-one to guard his back.

He could be lying dead in a ditch even now.

She shuddered. The ringing of the telephone startled her, but Cowley answered it, his responses curt. When he replaced the handset, he turned to her.

“It's clear. I guarantee it,” he vowed solemnly.

She took a deep breath, her chin raising defiantly, and stepped across the room towards him. She ignored him as she reached for the telephone, dialling a number confidently.

Cowley heard the ringing noise in the receiver, his nerves alight. In contrast, she seemed icily controlled. He heard a woman's voice answer.

Maggie fixed a bright, false smile in place, her teeth showing white. “Lisa. Magpie. Is Charlie around?” Her accent slid into a broad Northern twang, surprising him with its authenticity.

She was silent for a long time, her lips tightly pursed as she listened to the telephone. Finally a man's voice could be heard rumbling down the receiver, his words too quiet to be discerned. A wolfish grin spread across her face. “Alright, Charlie,” she drawled easily. “Long time no business.”

Cowley listened in fascination to the half sentences and brief words she exchanged with the man he'd known as Georgiou. She gave him a barest outline, but held nothing back.

“Got a whisper of a kill, mate. Triads are after someone. Someone important to me.” She paused, listening to the voice before continuing. “Don't know who, don't even know which branch.” Another pause. “I need to know how to call them off, Charlie. Permanently. And if their team get too close to him, I'll TWEP 'em.” It was so unlike her usual manner of speech, Cowley felt as though he was in the presence of a stranger.

The man's voice rumbled on for some time, Maggie interjecting monosyllabic noises of understanding, before another smile broke across her face. “Appreciate it, mate.” She paused again, listening to what he said. “No,” she said quietly. “Whatever it takes.” Another pause, and her face softened, her voice sounding more like her normal self. “Most important thing in the world,” she said gently. “Thanks.”

She replaced the handset carefully. “I'll call in back in 24 hours. He'll have the answer then.”

“What will you do?” Cowley asked.

She turned to him. “I need a favour. A couple of favours.”

“What's that?”

“A Walther WA-2000 sniper rifle, and a licence to kill,” she said firmly. “There's four assassins out there, and the Triads only respect power. Take out their team and they'll learn enough respect to negotiate.”

Cowley frowned. “You want to deal with these personally?” he asked, a worried look on his face. “I can't condone vigilantism, Maggie,” he said.

“I'm not asking you to,” she said smoothly. “I just want the best backup available for Macklin. And that's me.”

“You're too close,” he objected.

“So close I won't trust anyone else. So close I can't afford to miss,” she agreed. Her violet eyes sparkled with intensity. “I won't hesitate. And they are here illegally.”

“You think that makes them a free target?” he said.

“I think them threatening Macklin makes them a target,” she said. “I don't give a damn about anything else.”

Cowley regarded her shrewdly. She wouldn't deny her personal involvement, and normally that would preclude any involvement in the action. But if he tried to deny her, she would do it anyway, and that was likely to confuse the issue. It could result in someone dying in the crossfire. He stared deep into the red-rimmed violet eyes. They were clear now, all the fogged confused pain of earlier gone now a purpose had been given and a target obtained. It may go against any logic or common-sense, but while Maggie would lash out and weep, Magpie would track down and defend, kill if necessary. And Magpie was very much in control of her right now.

It came down to what was best for him and his team. And in this instance, that meant giving her her head.

He nodded. “Agreed. I'll make the necessary arrangements with the armoury. Bodie and Doyle will be back in an hour with the rifle and ammunition. In the meantime, we'll have to try and track down Macklin.”

There was no flinch in her gaze at the mention of Macklin. “Or track the Triads. Whoever told you they're here should know where they operate from.”

“I'll see what I can find,” he agreed gruffly, reaching for his coat. She followed him to the front door, where he turned back to her. “Don't mess this one up, Maggie,” he said firmly. “This is business, not personal.” His hard grey eyes regarded her sternly.

“It's personal,” she insisted. “Which is why it won't go wrong. It can't afford to.”

 

# # # # # # #

 

Macklin paced his hotel room, feeling more and more like a caged tiger with every step. He knew he couldn't afford to stay in one place too long, else Cowley would find him. And the more he moved around, the more chance he crossed the path of the Triads sent after him. On one hand, he had to draw them out to eliminate them, but on the other, he was in no rush to set himself against four assassins. The last time he had killed, he had done it for Maggie, not allowing himself the time to think or acknowledge his demons. Now, all he had was time, and no Maggie to chase them away.

But now he only had himself to worry about. He wouldn't be leading the Triads to Magpie's door. And he knew only too well how she would have reacted if he'd told her. He wasn't naïve enough to think she'd never have dealt with the Triads in her career. He just preferred not to think about it. Most of his professional life had been spent fighting them; he didn't know how well he would take knowing that his lover had worked for his enemies. He knew she operated based on her own particular brand of morality, a fine line between good and evil, and there was no reason why she would treat Triads differently to Yakuza or Mafia. But the Triads had been behind his shooting, the reason for his invaliding out of the service. They held a special place in his hatred.

Cowley had expected him to use Maggie's connections, he knew. He had to accept it was logical, rational. The best use of the resources available to him. But he couldn't think of her in those terms. He had known his options. Utilising Magpie meant exposing her, revealing her identity. The identity she had worked so hard to recover and cherished so deeply. That was never an option for him. He'd known as soon as he'd finished reading Cowley's note what he would have to do.

He had a sneaking suspicion that Cowley was just around the corner. His preternaturally sharp instincts were stretched to their limit, and he sensed surveillance. He had been almost relieved to notice the suspicious attentions of two men as he'd checked into the hotel that morning. He had begun to wonder whether paranoia had started already. They didn't have the look of Cowley's men, which could only mean the Triads were on to him already.

There was a grim fatalism in his realisation. It had always only been a matter of time. And the longer it dragged on, the more frayed his nerves would become. Better to deal with it quickly, while his senses were still sharp. Better to go down fighting than raving.

But – God – he wished he could see Maggie again. Just once more. Just to explain. But he knew what she would do. It wasn't immodest to know how much she loved him, how she would stop at nothing to protect him. He would do the same for her. And she would never let him out of her sight. She would want to stand beside him, alive or dead, and there was no way he would allow that.

Instead, he remembered the scent of her, the warm sandalwood that surrounded her, and the soft yielding hardness of her body against his. The unconscious brightness of her smile, the sound of her laughter. Happier times. Things worth remembering; things worth fighting for.

If he died, he wanted those memories to be the last things he saw.

 

# # # # # # #

 

Maggie had been close-lipped after speaking to Georgiou the next day. She had spent 24 hours prowling her home, always in the company of Bodie, Doyle, Murphy or even Cowley. She knew the surveillance was deliberate. She had not apologised for her attack on Doyle or Bodie, and neither man mentioned it either. Every minute of every day, she steeled herself for news of Macklin's death. Every night, she lay awake in their bed, clutching his jumper fiercely to her. His scent had begun to fade, and she refused to acknowledge her fear that this might signify anything more sinister.

Georgiou had needed another 24 hours to get some of the information she required. The Triads were closing ranks even more than usual, but Maggie remained confident he would come through for her. She couldn't bring herself to voice her fears if he failed.

Cowley had engineered to be present when she called her handler back again, Bodie and Doyle standing nearby in readiness. They would have to act immediately on any information they received. Macklin already had 48 hours head-start, and the Triad assassins had been on his trail for over four weeks now.

“Charlie. Magpie. What you got for me?”

Cowley listened again to the peculiarly stilted conversation and sentence structure that sounded so unlike her and yet so natural. She said little, offering mainly brief noises of understanding as the man's voice could be heard droning on, little more than a faint buzz to anyone listening in.

“What will stop them?” She asked at last. The reply seemed unwelcome, a frown briefly creasing her features. “No, Charlie. There's no option.” Pause. “Why?” Her voice became sharp. “Because I love him. I'm not sitting back and watching him die.” Her snarling reply was vicious, her voice cracking with emotion. Bodie and Doyle exchanged glances, shuffling in embarrassment at the earnest simplicity of her declaration. Her gaze shot to Cowley, dark blue eyes hard. “There has to be another way.” Desperation trembled in her voice. “I don't care about the price,” she said softly after another pause where the man's voice had been heard rumbling in the background. “Whatever price they name, I'll pay it.” Cowley's head shot up, his eyes flashing with anger, but she held his gaze unfaltering. “Anything, Charlie. Absolutely fucking anything.” She replaced the receiver slowly, her face hard and fixed.

“What deals are you making, Maggie?” Cowley demanded, anger in his voice.

“It's an honour killing,” she said abruptly. “They won't stop until he's dead.” Her self-control was amazing, but nevertheless a note of almost panic sounded in her voice. “Kill this team, and they'll send another.”

Cowley frowned. “Macklin hasn't been active in Hong Kong for five years or more. Why now?”

She moved away from the telephone, running one hand through her hair as she walked to the window. She leaned against the frame, staring out at nothing. “Sao Pei Shui died a few months ago. Mountain Master of 14K Triad. His grandson took over as Mountain Master. Kui Yen Siu. He's big on family honour and traditions.” She related the details in a flat monotone, her pale face firm and unflinching. “He considers Macklin's operations an insult to the memory of his ancestors, and only Macklin's death will assuage family honour.” A nerve twitched in her jaw, the only sign of her tightly-wound emotions.

“How many teams would he send?” Doyle asked.

She turned and fixed him with a harrowed look. “As many as it takes,” she replied. “They won't stop.”

“And what is the price Georgiou is negotiating for you? Your money-no-object deal with the Devil?” Cowley demanded.

She looked askance, a frown creasing her brow. She wouldn't look at Cowley, turning instead to stare out of the window again. “Blood money,” she said softly. “Georgiou might be able to negotiate a financial settlement to salvage their honour.”

“You'd buy his life?” Cowley asked. She did not reply. “And do you think Macklin would thank you for that?”

She turned to him, anger blazing in her eyes. “I don't care. He can hate me as much as he likes, as long as he's alive to do it,” she snapped. “Alive and hating me is much better than any alternative.”

Cowley had been tight-lipped and furious, but Maggie had shut down. Everything now centred on whether they'd find Macklin in time, and whether Georgiou could find a lever to make the Triads back off.

Maggie knew how unlikely either of those things could be. And if by some miracle the Triads would negotiate, she had to face the fact that Macklin would never forgive her for it. Either way, this would never end happily.

 

# # # # # # #

 

Six days later, and Murphy sat idly dealing solitaire by the light of the lamp. Conversation with Maggie had proved impossible over the last few days, not that Murphy could blame her. She sat cross-legged on the floor, polishing the wooden stock of the Walther rifle, the rest of the weapon lying on the sheet in front of her, oiled and gleaming.

His radio bleeped loudly in the silence. She looked up from the rifle and met his gaze. He cleared his throat as he reached for the radio, flipping the switch smoothly. “6-2.”

“Report in Murphy,” Bodie's voice crackled over the radio. “We've got him.”

Murphy watched as she slid the rifle back together confidently. “And Magpie?” he asked.

He heard Doyle's filthy chuckle over the radio. “Well, you can try stopping her,” Doyle replied.

Murphy gave a wry smile as he stood, sliding the radio into his back pocket. She stood up smoothly, slinging the now reassembled rifle over her shoulder and reaching for her Beretta. She slid the blued gun into her shoulder holster, checking the fit automatically.

Murphy gestured courteously with one hand. “Shall we?”

 

# # # #

 

Maggie stood in the background of Cowley's office. Bodie sat, lounging like a panther, in one chair, the ankle of one leg resting on the opposite knee in casual laziness. Doyle propped up the wall opposite, long legs crossed at the ankles mirroring the arms crossed over his chest. Murphy fell into station beside Maggie, unconsciously unwilling to leave her alone.

Cowley finished his telephone call and turned his stony gaze over the four of them. “Macklin has been in touch,” he announced abruptly. Doyle gave Maggie a sharp look, wary of any reaction from her. She gave nothing away, not the slightest flinch. He and Bodie exchanged a look, wondering what would happen when all that self-control disappeared.

“He's arranged a meet with the men sent after him, designed to draw them out. He's asked for back up.” Cowley was secretly pleased. The Brian Macklin he knew was perfectly capable of taking out four men, but not foolish enough to try it without support. That Macklin had asked for back-up meant he hadn't given up. Cowley had been worried his old friend had decided on a suicide mission simply to get the Triads away.

Looking at the impassive face of Maggie, he got the feeling she had been thinking the same thing.

“He's stipulated that Magpie not be part of any team sent to assist him” he added watching her closely.

She shrugged, her breathing far more controlled than she thought possible. All through the drive to the headquarters, she had been terrified the news would be that Macklin was dead. The fear had been at the front of her thoughts throughout the last few days. That he didn't want her on the team to help was not a concern.

“I'm not under your authority. I'm freelance. I do what I want,” she answered smoothly.

Cowley's eyes hardened. “I'll not have a wild card out there, girl, and if I have to lock you up in a cell until the job's done, don't think I won't.”

She did not seem perturbed by his threats. “You'd lock your best sniper away, just to show your authority? Never thought of you as that insecure, sir.” The lazy insubordination in her voice was tempered by the respect she showed through a simple honorific.

Cowley glared a warning, not mollified by her reply. “Aye, well, the fewer involved the better, and it'd cost too much manpower to make sure you kept out of it,” he replied. He spread a series of photographs out across his desk. “Aerial photographs of the place agreed for the rendezvous.” The four of them arranged themselves around his desk, staring down at the pictures. “What would you suggest?”

Bodie studied the pictures for a few seconds, before pointing out four areas. “These positions give best coverage,” he said.

Murphy nodded his agreement. He indicated a point on the pictures. “As soon as anyone enters the zone here, they're in a triangulation of fire wherever they go. A minimum of three shooters will have him covered immediately.”

“Maggie?” Cowley wanted her input.

She shrugged. “It's not complicated. You'd be walking into a killing zone as soon as you entered. And there's no other way in.” The coldness in her voice belied the tension in her face.

“So what do we do to counter it?” Cowley asked.

“Go in earlier,” Murphy suggested. “We can guess the positions they'll take. We take up positions to cover them, move if necessary.”

Bodie nodded. “Wait for them to take position then close in.”

Doyle gave a hissing breath. “Risky. They might see us and call it off.”

“If they do, take them down anyway,” Maggie said harshly.

The four men exchanged looks. Cowley nodded ruefully. “Aye, it might come to that,” he agreed softly.

“What time's the meet set for?” Doyle asked.

“Ten o'clock tomorrow morning,” Cowley replied.

“Doesn't give us long,” Murphy said.

Bodie checked his watch. “They'll start setting up at daybreak, which means we need to be in place before dawn.” He made a clicking sound as he sucked his teeth sharply. “Doesn't give us long at all.”

Cowley's lips pursed. “So what are you waiting for? Get on it.”

The three men moved sharply into action, but before Maggie left, Cowley called her back. She closed the door on the other three and turned back to him.

“Have you heard from Georgiou?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He's still negotiating.”

“I can't condone giving money to organized crime,” Cowley said coldly. “It goes against everything I've ever stood for.”

“And what else would you suggest?” she asked harshly, her eyes bright. “For God's sake, you don't think I want to do it, do you? I have to, that's all.”

He eyed her sadly, nodding softly. “Aye, girl. I know, I know,” he said gently. “You and Brian Macklin are a matched pair all right,” he said ruefully. “Neither one of you gets easy decisions to make.”

She shrugged, unwilling to reveal her misery to him. “That's life, isn't it?” she said quietly.

“Aye,” he agreed. He watched her carefully, noting the dark circles below her over-bright eyes. “Off you go, lassie,” he said at last. He watched her leave with sad eyes.

 

# # # #

 

Macklin felt the tremor of nerves under his skin, itching like a thousand ants. Walking into a trap, a double/triple trap. It went against every instinct, every sense. But if he wanted to get all of them together, this was the only option. Otherwise, it would be fighting off a four-fold attack at every corner, as each hitman took their own chance. Now he'd forced them to collaborate. Cornered them into one situation. He just had to hope Cowley's snipers were quicker off the mark.

They should be, he thought wryly. Hadn't he trained them himself?

Bodie and Murphy, for choice, he thought to himself, preparing to leave his hotel for the rendezvous. Doyle was best with the hand guns, but his long-range was only marginally less perfect than Bodie's.

Maggie was a natural sniper, of course.

The thought of her brought a calm centre to his twanging nerves. She would hug the rifle to her like a lover, the wooden stock warmed with her body heat, becoming part of her, an extension of herself. She went through ammunition catalogues like most women eyed jewellery. He allowed himself a wry grin at the thought. He hadn't a clue how much money she had made, and he didn't want to know, but it was obviously enough to keep her more than comfortable. She could buy any pretty thing she wanted, but what did she do? Go to the rifle range.

He hadn't seen her dressed up, primped and powdered, since she was 17 years old. The night of her birthday, when he'd taken her to the opera. When she'd kissed him, gently and desperately in the gardens, and he'd woefully underestimated the depth of her feelings.

He had the sorry feeling he'd done the same thing again. The shattered look in her eyes when he'd said he was leaving haunted him. He'd not allowed himself to think about it for days afterwards, knowing the memory would send him straight back to her on bended knee to beg her forgiveness. Time had allowed him to view it more logically, harshly. But he still harboured the feeling that he had made a terrible mistake.

His hackles rose as he drove into the abandoned industrial estate. The ghosts of industry, grey and streaked with rust, surrounded him; silent echoes of hard work and desperation. He closed the door on the Land Rover, the solid sound echoing around the buildings. An old firework or ammunitions factory, its glass roof shattered and open to the elements, lay in front of him.

He could feel the weight of sights, the shadows of guns, around him. Sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades, the weight of the Colt Python in his shoulder holster no longer a reassurance. He glanced at his watch – 09.59.

Ignoring the frantic beating of his heart, willing it back into compliance even as he willed one foot in front of the other, Macklin entered the derelict building. Pigeons scattered at his approach. He noticed where they fluttered to the rafters, and suddenly shied away. Snipers on the roof. He couldn't see them, but the pigeons knew they were there.

The CI5 men would have set up further away, he was certain. They'd have gone in before the Triads, waited for them to turn up, then closed in silently around them. Any snipers this close were Triads. Any friends he had were far away.

He heard the footsteps approaching before the man came into view. Tall, well-dressed, with light brown hair bleached into streaks by the sun.

“Brian Macklin?” The accent sounded South African. Unusual, but not unheard of, for the Triads to import their killers.

“You know I am,” he growled back.

The man grinned and inclined his head slightly in a deferential bow. “Your reputation precedes you,” he said.

“I don't need my ego pampered,” he snarled. “What do you want?”

The killer smiled. “Just to look you in the eye. Before I kill you.”

Rifle cracks fired simultaneously around him and he dived for cover, praying he went the right way. The South African went for his gun, but a single rifle shot shook him, drilling him between his eyes. Macklin watched him collapse to his knees, his face a rictus of shock and death.

Bullets ricocheted around him, too many to follow to their source. All he could do was keep his head down and wait.

He didn't have to wait long.

“Clear!” Bodie's voice echoed around the area, followed by Murphy's resounding response. “Clear!”

He stepped out from his cover, shielding his eyes to look up into the sunlight. The bullet smacked into his shoulder at the same instant he heard her voice.

“Fifth man! Five shooters!” Magpie screamed out even as she took the man down with three head-shots, panic forcing her into overkill.

He lay on the ground, feeling the warmth seep across his shoulders and the coldness in his fingertips. He closed his eyes against the blinding sunlight.

“Mack?”

He opened his eyes to see her leaning over him, shielding him from the light, her brow creased with worry. He saw the strap of the rifle lying over her chest, the rifle hanging across her back.

“You weren't supposed to be here,” he growled softly. He saw the flinch in the dark violet eyes and smiled. “Thank God you were,” he whispered, before sliding into unconsciousness.

 

# # # # # # #

 

Cowley approached the silent figure huddled in the corner of the corridor. He nodded to Murphy, who stood nearby.

“The bullet clipped the shoulder blade, but it was quite clean.” He spoke quietly to the hunched figure, who didn't move to acknowledge him. “He'll be coming round soon.”

She pushed herself upright and moved to step around him. “I need to 'phone Georgiou,” she said.

Murphy stood as though to follow her, but Cowley stopped him with a gesture. “I thought you might want to see Brian,” he said gently.

She froze, but did not turn to look at him. “I don't think I can,” she whispered.

“Maggie,” Cowley reached out to touch her, but stopped before he made contact. His hand dropped back to his side. “There's very little in this life that can't be sorted out by talking it through,” he said softly. “Don't throw it all away because of this. Don't let Brian.”

“Yes, well.” Her voice was little more than a sigh. “We've yet to see if the Triads will call their dogs off, whatever the price.”

Cowley and Murphy watched her walk away. Cowley cleared his throat and turned to Murphy. “You can go now, Murphy. Thank you for staying with her.”

“Not a problem, sir,” he answered smoothly.

 

# # # #

 

Cowley approached her slowly, hesitating until he saw her replace the receiver on the handset.

“Any news?”

She turned sharply, surprised by his presence. She recovered herself as he came closer to her. “No, not yet. They are willing to call them off though. It's just a question of price.”

“Isn't everything?” Cowley commiserated with a curl of his lip.

“Georgiou is trying to avoid appearing too eager,” she said.

“He's a wise man.”

“He's a crook,” she said sharply, her head rising to meet his gaze. He watched as her expression softened. “But he's an honest one,” she finished on a more gentle tone.

“You trust him, then?” he asked.

“With my life,” she answered quickly. She gave a short laugh. “It's just Macklin's life I don't trust to anyone else.”

“That's to be expected,” Cowley replied.

There was an uncomfortable silence between them. He stepped closer to her, reaching out to cup her elbow, to offer some kind of support. “Don't be too hard on yourself, Maggie,” he said softly.

“That's easy for you to say. You're just trying to work out how to do me for treason.”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “You do put me in a difficult situation,” he agreed unwillingly.

She smiled and reached to pat his hand reassuringly. “Don't worry, Uncle. I'll just disappear if need be. I won't be an embarrassment to you.”

The grey eyes searched her earnestly. “You were never that, Maggie, despite what you think.”

She watched him limp away.

 

# # # #

 

When he left Macklin's room some time later, she still hovered around the corridor.

“Are you going in to see him?” he asked.

She shook her head vehemently, her violet eyes large in her pale face.

“He has asked where you are,” he added with a note of reproach.

“I don't really think he's ready for this discussion, do you?” she replied.

He sighed as he settled his coat over one arm. “I don't think either of you are,” he agreed. “But I don't think delaying it will help either.” He scanned the pale face sadly. “Goodbye, Maggie. I'll come back in the morning.”

“I have to ring Georgiou in the morning. 10am.”

He nodded. “I'll be back by then,” he promised. He turned away. At the end of the corridor, he hesitated, turning back to see what she was doing. She remained in the corridor, unwilling to move too far away, but unable to approach Macklin yet. Cowley shook his head and left the hospital.

 

# # # #

 

Maggie hovered in the hospital corridor for the rest of the evening. The nursing staff grew accustomed to the slightly built figure lurking in the shadows outside the room of the CI5 agent. There were two other CI5 agents stationed at the post at the end of the corridor, but neither of them approached her.

The hospital grew quiet as it settled into the night. Nurses retired to their stations, reducing their rounds to allow their patients to heal themselves with sleep. Maggie watched the darkness shrouding Macklin's room, and could no longer resist the temptation to look in on him.

She stood in the doorway, watching him as he lay on his back in the bed. Crisp white sheets framed him, a bandage swathing his broad chest. His soft, sandy hair stood up haphazardly, messed and untidy. She longed to smooth it into some semblance of order. She watched him breathe, entranced by the simple motion.

One bullet. Just an inch or two lower, and it would have been his lung. Blood would have foamed and flecked those lips now soft and pliant in repose. If he was lucky, a machine would have been breathing for him. If he was lucky. If they'd reached him in time.

A few inches to the left and it would have gone straight through his heart. A foot or so higher than that and it would have gone through his head.

She wasn't aware of the tears until they trickled from her chin, tickling and cold. She wiped her face on her hands, holding her hand over her mouth to muffle the gasp as the alternatives all played out in her imagination.

Watching him breathe, watching the slow steady rise and fall of his chest, was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She would pay any price to keep him that way, and she wouldn't regret a single penny of it. She couldn't.

She froze as a frown creased his brow, his breathing hitching as he slept. She stepped nearer instinctively. His head twitched slightly, his eyes flickering and rolling underneath his lids. His hands fidgeted on top of the sheets, reaching for things that weren't there. The previously steady breathing became laboured and short.

Without realising it, she found herself standing beside him, looking down as he fought with demons in his sleep. She couldn't leave him like this, couldn't let him think he was alone. She reached out for his hand, stroking the long fingers gently. He gripped her hand suddenly, giving a gasp in his sleep. Unable to stop the tears streaming down her cheeks, she stroked his hair gently, careful not to let her shadow fall over his face until her identity had seeped into his unconscious. She smoothed the tousled hair.

“Shhh...” she whispered softly. “It's alright.” She bent down to press her lips gently against his forehead.

His breathing settled steadily, and she prepared to move away from him, delaying as much as possible. The warmth of his strong fingers around hers spoke to her of home more than any place in the world.

“Maggie?” She gasped as he whispered her name through dry lips. His grip tightened on her, stopping her from pulling away. She stared down at him as sleepy steel-blue eyes opened slowly to give her a confused look.

“It's okay,” she whispered softly. “Go back to sleep.”

“No,” he said, stronger. His tongue slid out to wet his parched lips, his voice hoarse and rasping. He tried to sit up, but winced at the pain. Instinctively, she reached out to keep him in position. His eyes opened wider as she leaned into him.

She paused, mere inches between their faces. “Don't go,” he said hoarsely.

“I'm not supposed to be here,” she whispered, hypnotised by his closeness, by the look in his beautiful eyes.

“Why didn't you come earlier?” he asked, the accusation in his eyes like a knife in her heart.

She moved away from him unwillingly, her hand still firmly in his grasp. “I didn't think it was a good idea.”

He frowned. “Why not?” She didn't answer, so he tugged at her hand gently, trying to pull her closer. She looked back into his eyes, caught by the emotions in their depths. “You don't really believe those things I said?” he asked softly. “You do know why I said them?”

She looked away again, unable to stand the self-recrimination in his eyes. “I know,” she said firmly. “I know why you said them.”

“I didn't mean it,” he insisted. “I love you. I always will.”

She gave a harsh laugh. “Always?” She stopped herself abruptly. “It's okay, Mack. I know.”

“I don't know why they came after me,” he began.

“It's alright,” she interrupted him gently. “We'll sort it.”

She saw the slow blink as tiredness hit him again, a residual effect of the anaesthetic and painkillers. “I can go home tomorrow,” he said sleepily.

“Good.”

He gripped her hand again. “Don't go,” he whispered.

“I have to.”

“Promise me.” He opened his eyes again, determined to fight the weariness until he had what he wanted. “Promise me you'll still be here when I wake.”

She hesitated, staring down at him, wondering what would happen to all this love and need when he found out the lengths she was prepared to go for him, the deals she was prepared to make. Macklin was an honourable man; he had fought organised crime all his life. How could he love a woman who made her money working for the same people he tried so hard to defeat? How would he react when he knew what she'd given them just to keep him alive?

“I'm not supposed to be here,” she repeated.

“Promise me,” he said, his voice stronger. He was fighting the anaesthetic with all the strength of will he possessed, she could tell.

She pried her hand free from his, ignoring his gasp of complaint, and reached for a nearby chair. When she had placed the chair beside the bed, she sat down, arranging herself as comfortably as possible, before placing her hand in his again. She met his gaze.

“I promise,” she said firmly. He gripped her hand again, covering it with his own. “I'll stay as long as you want me to,” she added. “I promise.”

He smiled, relaxing back into the pillows, allowing sleep to take him almost immediately. He closed his eyes, unable to keep them open any longer now he had her word.

She sat beside him and wondered how long it would be before he would be sending her away. Until then, she had tonight. She could watch him sleep. It was likely to be her last pleasant memory of him. For that, she would give everything she had.

 

# # # # # # #

 

The nurse hesitated in the doorway, seeing the woman asleep beside the man. She looked uncomfortable, her head on the bed beside his hand, the rest of her body curved across the gap between the chair on which she sat and the bed. The man in the bed slept peacefully, his hand buried in her hair as it tumbled over the bed.

She stepped closer to check his vital signs, and started as the woman sat up suddenly, her eyes large and alert.

“I'm just checking on him,” the nurse explained in a whisper. “You should go now.”

“I can't,” she replied. She looked down to where her hand lay entwined with Macklin's. Despite his sleep, his grip on her hand remained firm.

“He's sleeping now. You can come back tomorrow,” the nurse insisted.

Maggie smiled. “No, you don't understand. I can't.” As though to illustrate her meaning, she tried to slide her hand out from underneath Macklin's. Almost immediately, his fingers tightened around hers, a frown creasing his features. “He won't let me,” she explained.

“He's heavily sedated,” the nurse objected.

“He's determined I'm not leaving,” Maggie replied. “There's very little that stops him once he's decided something.” And didn't she know that better than most, having experienced the lengths he was prepared to go to just to achieve his ends.

The nurse watched the patient's growing distress as the woman tried to free her hand, and conceded the point. “Very well,” she agreed. “But I don't know what the Sister will say.”

Maggie smiled. It wasn't a reassuring look. “I don't care. Right now, whatever he wants, he can have.” She settled back down beside him, stroking his hand gently until his breathing steadied and he returned to restful sleep.

The nurse left them, pulling the door closed behind her. She had seen lots of things in her years of nursing, and she knew that sometimes patients needed more than medicine and doctoring.

Maggie rested her head beside their joined hands again, trying to ease the stiffness in her back. She turned her head to watch him breathe again. It wasn't something she tired of seeing.

 

# # # # # # #

 

Maggie stared out of the window while the nurses did all their tasks, keeping out of the way, but close enough so that Macklin kept her in sight. The steel-blue eyes looked at her with such warmth, such love and peace, that she couldn't bear to see it any longer. When Cowley arrived, she would shatter that peace.

“Maggie?”

She turned around, finding the nurses gone and Macklin sat on the side of the bed, wearing clean jeans and nothing else. Breakfast had been cleared away, medicine lay neatly parcelled on the bedside cabinet His right arm was in a sling, his arm and shoulder in new bandages.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” he asked gently.

She turned back to the window, her vision blurred with sudden tears she didn't want him to see.

“Maggie.” He called her again, his voice more insistent this time.

She turned from the window, reaching into the cabinet to pull out a clean shirt and socks, still unwilling to look directly at him. He caught her wrist as she put the clothes on the bed next to him.

“Are you still angry with me?”

She laughed – a harsh, short bark that held no humour. Tears slid down her cheeks. He frowned when he saw them. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her towards him. When she stood in front of him, he released her wrist, reaching to tilt her face up to meet his perceptive gaze.

“What aren't you telling me?” he asked softly, a frown creasing his brow.

“We know why the Triads were after you, Brian.” Cowley's voice came from the doorway.

Macklin winced as he turned sharply, surprised by Cowley's sudden appearance. Maggie took advantage of his distraction to retreat away from him, back to the window.

“Why?” Macklin asked.

Cowley's lips were compressed, his eyes hard as he looked at Maggie. “Maggie?”

She cleared her throat, trying to remove the restriction she felt choking her from the inside. “Honour killing,” she said at last, her voice hoarse. She addressed the glass pane of the window, but she had no idea what she was looking at.

“What?” Macklin's voice was sharp.

She turned back, her eyes still downcast, looking at the floor. “The new Mountain Master for 14K Triad decided you had to die to pay for the insult to his forefathers.”

She risked a glance at him, seeing the tight line of his mouth as he processed the information.

“How did you find out?” he asked.

“Georgiou,” she replied. “My old handler.”

Anger flashed in his blue eyes. “You contacted him,” he said, accusation in his voice.

“She did the obvious,” Cowley snapped. “What you should expect her to do. What you should have asked her to do.”

“I wasn't going to risk her identity with the damn Triads!” Macklin snarled angrily.

“No, you were just going to risk your life without even giving me the courtesy of explaining,” she snapped.

Macklin had the grace to look abashed. “I didn't know what else to do,” he said apologetically.

“Well, we've both been there these last few days,” she said, her anger disappearing as quickly as it had flared.

Macklin sighed, running his hand through his hair distractedly. “An honour killing,” he said quietly. “That means they won't stop.”

“Yes, they will,” she said firmly.

She stepped towards him, her eyes clear and devoid of tears. Her jaw clenched, her expression firm and determined. He watched her warily.

She waited until she stood within reach of him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “Georgiou has negotiated a settlement. They will consider their honour assuaged, and call off the contract.”

Macklin stared at her, his expression frozen as her meaning became all to apparent. “Maggie,” he said softly. “What have you done?”

“What I had to,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper.

Anger flared in his eyes. “And what's thirty pieces of silver adjusted for nearly 2,000 years inflation?” he demanded.

“Sterling, not silver. And considerably more than thirty,” she replied frostily.

He stood up, towering over her. She did not back away from him. “Everything I've ever done. Everything I've ever been through. And you think you can wipe it away with money?”

She flinched at the fury in his ice-cold voice, but she did not retreat. “Did you think I'd just sit back and let them take you?” she asked quietly. “You may be so damned honourable you'll sacrifice your life for a principle, but I'm not.” Her voice rose, cracking with tightly wound emotions. “I'm part of their world as well, and I'll use any means necessary to achieve results.”

“You'll always get what you want, will you?” he growled. “Damn what anyone else wants?”

“You want to be dead? You want to throw your life away for the sake of some stupid moral high ground?”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“Me being ridiculous?”

“Maggie! Brian!” Cowley's voice cut over their argument, reminding them of his presence and where they were. Macklin leaned back against the bed, looking pale after his outburst. He stared at the floor, unable to look at her. Maggie turned away, retreating back to the window, her arms folded in front of her in self-defence.

“How much?” Macklin asked quietly. He raised his head to look at her, seeing only her back, her shoulders tight with tension. “How much?” he repeated, louder, when she did not reply.

“I don't know yet,” she said at last. “It hasn't been set.”

“So you don't have to pay it?” he said.

She turned on him angrily, her arms falling to her sides, her hands clenched into fists. “Nothing you say will stop me,” she snarled. “I don't care what you say or do, I will pay this blood money.”

Macklin sighed. “Maggie.” His voice was heavy, calm and firm. “How do you expect me to feel about this?”

She stood firm, her fury cold and contained. “I haven't thought that far,” she said in a whisper. “I just wanted you alive, Mack,” she said, accusation in her voice. “I didn't care about anything else.”

“Maggie.” Cowley's voice, now quieter and restrained, interrupted them. “You have to telephone Georgiou. I'd rather you did it from my office. Murphy is waiting outside. He'll take Brian home.” He reached out to her, calling for her to leave with him.

Macklin stood, leaning back against the bed, strain showing in his ruggedly handsome face. He would not look at her.

She turned away from him reluctantly, suddenly afraid that this would be the last time she saw Macklin. Cowley placed his hand on her shoulder, guiding her out of the door.

“Maggie.” Macklin's voice stopped her at the doorway. She turned back, her expression closed and unreadable. Macklin still stared at the floor in front of him. “I will see you later,” he said, a subtle threat in his voice. There was no room for negotiation in that tone.

She nodded, unable to speak, and allowed Cowley to usher her outside.

Macklin remained where he was as long seconds ticked by.

 

# # # # # # #

 

Cowley could think of nothing to say to Maggie during the short drive from the hospital to CI5 headquarters. Nothing that wasn't clichéd platitudes and empty words. His God-daughter would not thank him for any of them; they would simply drive a further wedge between them. He could live without that. She had retreated into emotional shut-down, appearing cold and unco-operative. Cowley knew from experience it was only when she was at her most vulnerable that she appeared so impenetrable.

She followed him to his office, barely noticing any agents in their path, or the cheery Good Morning from Betty as they entered. Cowley nodded his greetings for them both, Maggie little more than a zombie following in his wake.

“A drink?” Cowley asked as he hung his coat on the stand. She stood, leaning one shoulder against the wall in front of his desk, her arms folded around her as though cold. She shook her head silently.

“Aye, well it's probably too early for some,” he agreed. “But a coffee would be welcome.” He opened the door again, asking Betty to bring two cups of coffee. Maggie didn't acknowledge the offer.

“I would like to listen to the conversation,” Cowley said at last as Betty closed the door behind her. Maggie finally roused herself from her stupor.

“You've got to be kidding,” she said.

The grey eyes were sharp and determined. “No joke, girl. If you're going to commit treason in my office, I want to hear it first-hand.”

She sighed, taking the seat in front of him, landing heavily in the chair with none of her usual grace. “Whatever you want,” she agreed quietly. “Just your word you won't implicate Georgiou.”

“You have it,” he agreed brusquely. He stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “It's ten o'clock.”

She did not question him or argue. She simply reached for the telephone and dialled the number.

“Morning, Lisa. Magpie. Charlie's expecting me.” She sounded tired, bone-weary. The flat accent she assumed when speaking to her handler seemed heavier.

“Hello, Charlie,” she said at last. “What you got for me?” She paused, watching the curled telephone line twist in the fingers of her spare hand. Cowley heard the man's voice rumble down the telephone. “Yeah, well, who said life was meant to be easy,” she said, no humour in her voice. “What's the price?” A brief answer. “500,000?” Cowley's eyebrows raised in shock, but Maggie sounded unconcerned by the sum. “What do you suggest?” A frown creased her features, and her fingers stilled on the cord. “What's that?” Georgiou's voice continued for some time.

Maggie took a sudden, sharp breath, standing up quickly. “You've got what?” she asked softly. “How much?” Another pause. “And that would work?” She listened again, her eyes darting around the room as she considered what she was being told. “And that will call them off? They won't go after Macklin again, any of them?” The answer was brief. “Charlie, you're a genius.” A smile lit her face, the first genuine smile Cowley had seen from her in days. “Yeah, I'll see you right. You're a star, mate.”

She replaced the handset, staring at the telephone, her hands resting on her hips.

“It's agreed, then?” Cowley asked.

She turned to him, a wolfish smile splitting her face. “Oh yes,” she said. “It's all sorted. And you can call off your wolves as well.”

Cowley listened as she explained Georgiou's arrangement.

 

# # # # # # #

 

Maggie hesitated at the front door. Cowley may have understood her motives, but Macklin was a different proposition. Macklin, who understood her better than anyone ever had or ever tried, didn't seem to understand this at all.

She paused in the open doorway, listening. The house was silent. She closed the door behind her, making her way through the house with a sense of panic. He'd said he wanted to talk; it had sounded like a promise.

He rose from the sofa as she entered the living room. He had obviously been lying across it, hidden from her view. Her relief at seeing him was short-lived.

He stood to one side, the hold-all at his feet.

She froze, deja-vu turning her blood to ice in her veins.

He saw the widening of her eyes, the bloodless lips, and realised what she was seeing. He stepped away from the bag.

“I'm not leaving, Maggie,” he said gently, reassuring her like comforting a wild animal. “I'm not planning to, at least,” he added honestly.

“Not yet, at any rate,” she said.

He leaned against the back of the sofa, cradling his injured arm. She gave a sigh. “Have you taken your tablets?” she asked, exasperation in her voice.

He looked at her from under his lashes. “Not yet, Maggie. I want to be sober for this conversation.”

She took a deep breath, running her hand through her hair distractedly. “It's finished, Mack. Kui Yen Siu accepted the blood price. You can't stop it.”

“What lengths would you have gone to?” he asked softly. “What wouldn't you have done, Maggie?”

“I could ask you the same question,” she said sharply.

His head twitched to one side, fixing her with a sidelong look. “Don't skirt the issue,” he said firmly. “They could have demanded anything. Any price. They could have insisted on your taking on a job for them. They could have asked for your allegiance.”

“And to keep it they would have had to keep you alive, wouldn't they?” she replied angrily. “And Kui Yen Siu would have been my first target.”

“And what would that have achieved?”

“Well, they'd have been too busy looking for me to worry about you for one thing.”

“Don't be flippant,” he snapped. “What if they'd told you to take out Cowley?”

She turned around angrily. “Credit me with some sense! If they wanted anything like that, they would have had to keep you alive. Keep you alive and I would have hunted them down. But this was an honour killing, and you know they don't work like that. If they'd ordered anything like that, they would have lost face with the other Triads. 14K can't afford that now, not with a new Master.”

He watched her carefully. “You seem to know a lot about how it works,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “What jobs did you do for them?”

Her breath caught in her throat and she paled. She licked her lips nervously. “One job,” she admitted, unable to meet his gaze.

“Who?”

“Wan Kuok-toi,” she replied, her voice flat and unemotional.

Macklin gave a short bark of humourless laughter. “Shui Fong Triads,” he said, shaking his head. “I investigated that.” He gave her a look of grudging admiration. “I should have guessed.” She shifted uncomfortably in his gaze. “Who for, and why?”

“Fok Yin Tung,” she replied immediately. “Wo Hop To Triads. Honour killing.”

“Shui Fong were making a move on their territory,” Macklin said.

She nodded quickly.

“You killed right under my nose.” The accusation in his voice made her flinch. “For what? Money?”

She nodded again, reluctantly. He made a harsh sound, part growl, part profanity, as he stood upright. He needed to move, to expend some of the energy his frustration and anger were creating.

“£75,000,” she replied, more calmly than she felt.

He stared at her, unable to trust himself to speak. So she had returned to Hong Kong, but not for him; for a job. He turned away, running his hand through his hair and moving to stand by the patio doors. He stared out into the small garden, his jaw clenching and unclenching reflexively.

“Mack.” Her voice was a soft whisper, close behind him, but he couldn't look at her.

She reached out to touch the broad, strong back, but stopped short of contact. She could feel the heat of his body beneath her palm, but dared not touch him.

“I can't say I'm sorry,” she said at last. “I can't say I regret it. It's too – confusing.” Her hand dropped back to her side.

“Did I underestimate you so much?” he growled. “Or was it that I expected too much of you?”

She sighed. “I don't know,” she whispered. She turned away from him, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Lots of things happened, Mack. Fourteen years worth. It's not simple.”

“Try me,” he snarled, unable to keep the vicious tone from his voice.

“I left you,” she began simply. “Went back to England. Killed those men.” She shrugged. “I couldn't stand the thought I might see them one day, walking down the street. Or that I'd pick up a newspaper and read something I knew they had done. Anything. I don't know. I just don't know.” Her voice trailed away. She took a deep breath to gather herself again. “When that was done, I went to see Cowley, and realised I'd just screwed everything up. After that, I knew I couldn't go back to Hong Kong. I couldn't face you. And I didn't want them to mean so much. So I found Georgiou, became Magpie. It all seemed so simple somehow.”

He leaned against the wall, cradling his injured arm again, letting the soft narrative flow over him. He could hear the pain she always tried to hide seeping through.

“I don't know what happened. It all seems so – dark,” she continued. "I estimate I've killed 82 people in my life, but the honest truth is, I don't know. I just don't know.” Her breath caught in her throat in a choked sob. “Those first five years – I look back, and I can't remember. I killed so many.” Cold panic sounded in her voice, as though thinking about this darkness frightened her more than she could say. “One after the other, whatever job Georgiou found for me. The only things I wouldn't do was sending a message or killing guards. I figured I wasn't a telegram service and I wasn't going to kill someone for doing their job. But that was all. Anything else was fair game. I must have killed at least ten a year.” Her voice trailed away, the memories threatening to overwhelm her.

“It was so dark, Mack.” He almost missed her whisper. He heard a sniff, a catch, as she tried to bring herself back under control. “I killed a man in Milan – the son of one of the Families,” she began again in a matter-of-fact voice. “He had what they euphemistically call 'offered insult' to the grand-daughter of one of the Godfathers, so they put a hit on him.” She affected mild amusement, but Macklin knew better than be convinced by the act. “I went in, garotted him in his sleep, got out. No problems. 'Phoned it through to Georgiou.” She related the details with cold brusqueness. “Then a couple of days later, he called me back to say the money had cleared. And I threw up.” Surprise sounded in her voice, as though the memory itself was strange to her. “I couldn't put the 'phone down fast enough. I couldn't stop being sick, I had tears pouring down my face. I drew the curtains and crawled into bed, and I don't remember moving for at least a week.”

She rattled the details off quickly. Macklin closed his eyes, feeling only pain at the recital. She had broken down, overloaded. All alone.

She continued, unaware of his reaction, only desperate to finish what she had started. “Finally, I remember crawling into the bathroom and looking in the mirror – and I didn't know what I was looking at. I couldn't recognise myself at all. That's when it all hit me – five years of murdering and killing. All at once. I thought I was going to choke on it all. I knew then I had to get out, but I was surrounded by this darkness and I couldn't see the way out.” Panic seemed to strike her again. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she was unaware, locked in her memories and the past. “Whenever there was the slightest glimmer of light, I'd grab it and try to crawl out, but it was never strong enough to anchor me. I'd crawl into reality, but it was all a lie, where I had to lie about my name, lie about my family, lie about everything.” Her voice broke into a sob. She wasn't even aware as she rushed through her confession. “I couldn't do it. I'd keep falling back into the darkness, because the only reality was Magpie. But it was killing me from the inside.” She paused for breath, and became aware of her tears. She wiped her face with her hands and looked towards him. His broad shoulders slumped, his head resting against the wall.

She had no idea what he was thinking. She only knew she had to speak now, before he looked at her. She couldn't say everything she needed to say if he faced her. She couldn't bear to think of the accusation in his eyes.

"I even got engaged to be married,” she confessed, her voice back under control again. “He was good, kind, gentle, and handsome. And I wanted to love him.” There was regret in her whispering words. She sniffed, and continued in a harder voice. “But it wasn't me he loved. It was who I was pretending to be. That wasn't fair on either of us. Eventually, I left completely – locked myself away in the Lake District and stopped trying for a normal life. After two years of that, I got dragged out of it, and ended up knocking on your door for a job.”

She stared at his back, willing him to understand, to see through the flood of words to what she was trying to tell him. “I couldn't risk losing you, Mack. Because the real world is all just a lie. I have to be Magpie _and_ Maggie. You hold me together, because you don't mind the darkness. You keep me out of it. You keep me in the light. No-one else is strong enough to do that. No-one.”

He turned awkwardly, his injured shoulder making his normally smooth movements stilted. She held her breath, her eyes bright and desperate in her pale face. Waiting.

“That's a hell of a responsibility, Maggie,” he said gently. “What makes you think I can deal with it?”

“You always have,” she replied. “You don't have to do anything, Mack. You just have to be you.” She wiped her face again, fresh tears spilling as quickly as she wiped them away. “You don't even have to love me.”

“And that's the price you're prepared to pay, is it?” The steel-blue eyes regarded her candidly. “You'll let me walk away, blame you for dealing with the Triads, just so I can keep my honour and you keep – what? This idea you have of me as some kind of knight in shining armour?”

“You're the one person in the whole world I've always trusted,” she answered simply. “The one thing I could always believe in.”

He walked over to her slowly. She watched cautiously, standing up to face him, whatever he said or did. He raised his hand, watching her follow the movement of his hand as he reached out and cupped her face gently. She closed her eyes, nestling into his touch with an unconscious sigh.

“Maggie,” he said in a soft whisper, his thumb tracing her cheek bone, wiping away her tears. “Don't you think that works both ways?” She opened her eyes to see him smiling down at her, his steel-blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I can tell you a million times, I love you. When will you understand just how much I do?”

He reached around her head to pull her into his one-armed embrace, burying her head into his uninjured shoulder and kissing the side of her head, feeling her hair caress his face. He sighed, closing his eyes at the completion he felt simply from holding her again.

She slid her arms around him, holding on to him desperately. She could hear his heart beating beneath her cheek, feel the warmth of him around her. She felt his lips against her cheek and wanted to laugh from the sheer joy of it. She was home.

“Maggie.” His voice rumbled in his chest beneath her ear. “You have to tell me.” He stepped away from her to look down into her eyes, his hand sliding again to stroke her cheek. “How much did they ask for?”

She blinked. “How much?” she echoed. She cleared her throat. “Half a million,” she whispered.

“Half a -?” Macklin's voice echoed around the room. He pulled her against him as she flinched, trying to reassure her even as he tried to deal with the shock. “Half a million pounds, Maggie?” he said at last.

He felt her nod against him and closed his eyes, feeling a terrible hollowness inside as he thought of how the money would be used.

“That's what they asked for,” she said gently, her words muffled against his chest. “But Georgiou thought cash was a bad idea.”

Macklin frowned and pulled her head away from him again, staring down at her with a curious look. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Her violet eyes were wide and candid. “Georgiou thought cash was too traceable. He didn't want Kui Yen Siu knowing he was dealing with Magpie.”

Macklin had to acknowledge the man's wisdom. “He's good, then?”

“He's the best,” she answered firmly. “Whatever you want, he gets. And his reputation is everything to him,” she explained. “He thought cash wasn't a suitable way to honour the dead.”

Macklin's frown deepened. “But you said you paid half a million cash?”

She shook her head. “No, I didn't,” she said with a confused look. “I said that's what they asked for.”

He closed his eyes. There were times when Maggie was almost as twisted and convoluted as Cowley. Sometimes she seemed incapable of giving a straight answer. What made it more difficult was that she didn't even do it intentionally. It wasn't really a lie by omission; she just didn't think to mention some things. “What did you give them, Maggie?” he asked at last.

“Georgiou deals in more than just assassins. He's a procurer. Whatever you want, he gets.” She explained patiently, and he knew he would have to wait until she got to the specifics. “There's a tomb been uncovered, an Emperor. And Georgiou is negotiating the disposal of the artefacts.”

“Maggie,” he growled softly. “Get to the point.”

“A jade burial suit,” she said at last, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Georgiou thought it more respectful.”

He stared down at her in disbelief. “A jade burial suit?” he repeated. “But they're supposed to be just a story.” Her violent eyes were surprising innocent. He decided to ignore the specifics for the moment and concentrated on the meaning. “Georgiou gave them a jade burial suit worth £500,000?”

“Well, a bit more than £500, but -”

He pulled her back into his embrace, laughing out loud. A jade burial suit would sit in the grave of the old Mountain Master, and never be sold because that would be disrespectful to the memory of the Master. A jade burial suit, the promise of immortality and the prestige it would bring to the dead man, would be worth more than the cash. It was half a million pounds that would never be used. It was brilliant.

“Georgiou is a genius,” he laughed.

She nestled into his arms and enjoyed the sound she'd never thought to hear again. “That's what Cowley said.”

“And aren't they curious as to who thinks I'm worth all this trouble?”

She shrugged, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the simple pleasure of holding him again. “Doesn't matter. Georgiou would never let it slip. His reputation would be destroyed. Without it, he's nothing. Just another target.”

He held her close, inhaling the scent of her hair. “Maggie?”

She felt his lips move against her cheek, but maintained her hold on him, unwilling to let him go for a second. “Hmmm?”

His arm tightened around her. “Let's go to bed.”

She grinned helplessly. “You're injured. You need rest.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “So take me to bed.” She angled her head to leave her cheek pressed against his chest while she looked up into his face. “But you'll have to be gentle,” he added with a smile.

She sighed and moved away from him reluctantly, before reaching out for his hand with a shy smile. “I can do gentle,” she said softly.

 

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Maggie walked slowly along the narrow paths of the cemetery, her heels crunching in the old, worn gravel. She wore a charcoal grey suit, a fitted jacket over a short skirt. Plum coloured silk lining flashed as she moved. Her long hair was neatly contained in a pleat. Subtle make up emphasised her high cheekbones, large eyes and full lips.

At the top of the path, a white marble angel stood, eyes demurely downcast with a look of piety as it stared at its hands clasped in prayer. Beneath the statue sat a grey haired man in a wheelchair, staring down at the golden head of a young woman who arranged white roses on the grave.

Maggie stood beside the wheelchair, her hands in front of her in a respectful pose.

“Alright, Charlie?” she said at last.

The man did not turn, but a smile passed over his features. He had a close cropped beard, once black but now flecked with white. His brown eyes sparkled with life.

“Hello, Magpie. How appropriate to find you in a cemetery.”

“Your idea,” she replied. Her broad, northern accent was in direct contrast to his refined, well-spoken drawl.

The blonde haired woman looked up from the flowers and gave Maggie a bright smile. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello, Lisa,” Maggie replied. “You're doing a good job there.” The woman gave another smile, one of innocence and youth. However old the woman was, the wide-eyed innocence in her brown eyes spoke of the frailty of her situation. A child trapped in a woman's body.

Charlie gazed fondly at the woman. “She's a good girl,” he agreed. “You stay here, Lisa. I need to go and chat to the lady.”

Lisa nodded happily, her attention fixed on the sprays of gypsophila and white roses she arranged so carefully. She paid no attention as Maggie slowly pushed Charlie away from the graveside.

“She's looking good, Charlie,” Maggie said.

He nodded. “She's happy,” he agreed. “That's important.”

Maggie did not respond, looking around her at the yews and sycamores that shaded the haphazard rows of black and white marble.

“And you. Are you happy?” he asked at last.

She smiled unconsciously. “Oh yes,” she said. “I am.”

She stopped the chair under the shade of a tree, startling the squirrels playing underneath it. They approached cautiously, wondering whether the two humans had any treats for them.

Maggie moved to stand in front of him, crouching decorously with her knees tucked closely together. She reached into her handbag, and removed a white envelope, handing it to him casually.

“You can count it. I won't be offended,” she said.

He gave her a look of wry affection. “Yes, you will,” he contradicted. “You'll try to hide it, but you'll fail miserably. You always do.”

She laughed softly, white teeth showing against her red lips. “It's the thought that counts, Charlie.”

“Talking of which, what were you thinking of, getting involved with Brian Macklin?”

She looked away from him, standing up smoothly and returning to the back of the chair to push him again. “That's a very long story, Charlie,” she said.

“And not one you'll be telling me, obviously,” he said. He nodded down to the dark green Jaguar she had left parked at the bottom of the path. Macklin stood leaning against the gleaming car, casually elegant in a dark suit, white shirt and half undone dark tie. His hands rested in his trouser pockets as he watched them from behind mirrored sunglasses.

“Does he know why you're here?”

She smiled. “Probably. I generally work on the principle that he knows, unless he asks. And if he doesn't ask, he doesn't want to know.”

“You're well-matched,” Charlie said, as they continued around the path, leading back to the white marble angel. “If his reputation is anything to go by, it would take someone like him to handle you.”

“Cheeky,” she said, without ire. “His reputation doesn't do him justice. Anyway, didn't you handle me for long enough?”

He glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Barely. You, my girl, take a lot of handling.”

“You know me, Charlie. I'll take anything I can get,” she said with a leer. She pushed him back to the stone angel. Lisa sat on her heels, admiring her handiwork.

“You were always good to me, Charlie,” Maggie said at last, all trace of amusement gone. “But I can't thank you enough for getting the Triads off Mack. It – was difficult,” she said haltingly.

“You put my children through university, paid for three divorces and five houses,” Charlie said brusquely. “I think I could afford to repay the favour.”

She laughed softly, and reached down to press a kiss against his cheek. “Goodbye, Charlie. I don't miss the job, but I do miss you.”

“Well, don't,” he said gruffly. “I never did anything for you that wasn't business, Magpie.” The brusque, hard look melted into a smile. “But then, doing business with you was always a pleasure,” he admitted. He reached out and patted her hand as it lay on the arm of his wheelchair. “I'm glad you're out of it, Magpie. You can't maintain that level of efficiency without going mad eventually.”

She remembered the darkness that threatened her in the past, the echo of emptiness and loneliness that had threatened to swallow her up, and in which she had almost drowned. She shivered, feeling cold despite the warm sunshine.

“Goodbye, Charlie,” she said, giving him one last smile before turning away and walking slowly back down the path.

She saw Macklin straighten as she approached, a look of concern on his handsome face. He removed the sunglasses and frowned in the bright light.

“Everything all right?” he asked when she reached him.

She nodded, her eyes softening as she looked up at him. The darkness was so far away now, no more than a distant memory. It always seemed to melt away when he was near.

“Everything perfect,” she said with a dazzling smile. She reached out and stroked his cheek gently. “Everything.”

 

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End file.
